


trouble on my tongue

by LearnedFoot



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst and Porn, First Time, For Science!, Guilt, Heavy Angst, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Not A Fix-It, Slight Canon Divergence AU re: Tony/Pepper Engagement, dom/sub dynamics, otherwise canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:22:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24078928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: Sometimes, Tony has to stop, look around, and ask:how the fuck did I wind up here?This, ladies and gentlemen, is one of those times.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 65
Kudos: 351
Collections: Id Pro Quo 2020





	trouble on my tongue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aphilologicalbatman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphilologicalbatman/gifts).



> I had much fun writing you this pinch hit. I hope it’s what you were looking for from this ship.
> 
> Title is from ["Weak" by AJR](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2LCOiwtCAZE), which is one of my favorite Peter/Tony songs.
> 
>  _Content note:_ Heed the tags -- this is less happy than most of my P/T! (If you're looking for something more along the lines of my normal stuff, [the other fic I revealed today](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23972794) is a more normal angst + happy ending combo :D

“Mr. Stark, come _on_.” Peter’s voice is tight, insistent, sure. “I don’t want to die a virgin. Please?”

Sometimes, Tony has to stop, look around, and ask: _how the fuck did I wind up here_?

This, ladies and gentlemen, is one of those times.

\---

It started with Peter webbing his hand to a door, then relenting immediately when Tony told him to take it off. With two thoughts at the same moment: _Christ, this kid could overpower me without blinking_ and _Yeah, this kid will do anything I tell him._

With the realization: _Fuck, that’s hot_.

\---

Wait, no, scratch that. Rewind, erase. It did _not_ start there, thank you very much. Okay, yes, those thoughts occurred. That realization shot through his dick like a revelation. Technically, those things happened. But you can’t blame a man for his subconscious. That’s not fair.

And if you _are_ going to get into the subconscious, maybe you need to play the tape back further. Hell, maybe it started with Howard. Talk about daddy issues. Or Obie tearing the arc reactor out of his chest. Like, come on. His mentor-come-father-figure tried to stab him in the back and, when that didn’t work, resorted to attempting to murder him face-to-face. That’s daddy issues times two. Of course he’s going to have trouble building normal relationships.

Or Steve. Yeah, that’s a good one. Pin it on a shield straight to the chest, the team he spent years building falling apart like tissue paper in water, like it had been nothing. Or, worse, like it had been something that was better off without him.

Pack all that up and stuff him full until he wanted to vomit from choking it down, and who could blame him for liking, just a little too much, a brave kid from Queens who looked at him like he was an honest-to-god hero?

\---

(Everyone. That’s who could blame him. Anyone in their right god damn mind. Because that kid was fifteen.)

\---

Okay. Subconscious aside, maybe it started with the voicemails. With that sweet, enthusiastic voice begging for his attention at a time when no one else seemed interested.

In retrospect, it was probably a bad idea to get into the habit of listening to those messages over a glass of whiskey every night. It was definitely a bad idea to let his hand wander as he sat there, playing the recordings back so many times he memorized them. Not that he ever jerked off, exactly. That would be weird, inappropriate, creepy, whatever other names you have for the kind of guy who used to masturbate in movie theaters, back when that was a thing. He just…acknowledged that Peter’s voice got him hard. Pressed down on his dick a little to relieve the pressure. Let his mind wander to the question of how far the kid would go to earn his coveted spot on the Avengers.

Not that Tony would ever. Never that. He doesn’t trade sex for favors, not even in his lowest moments. It was just a thought, a fantasy that made him even harder than Peter’s voice. But, hey. What’s in your head can’t hurt anyone.

\---

And it _was_ only in his head. He didn’t do anything about it, then. He decidedly did not. He barely saw the kid; kept him at such arm’s length Peter almost got himself killed because he didn’t realize Tony cared, didn’t understand how closely he listened.

Of course he didn’t know, because Tony tried so very hard _not_ to care. Tried—private listening parties aside—to tamp down the want until it smoldered out.

Speaking of which, Tony still thinks he should get a medal for how he handled the aftermath of the ferry situation. Or, more accurately, for how he _didn’t_ handle it. For ignoring the almost overwhelming urge to grab that lithe body, which looked too damn good in the skintight suit Tony had built. For not throwing Peter over his knee so he could take his frustration out in some sort of BDSM porn scenario right there on the roof where any paparazzi with a helicopter could see.

 _None of it means anything_ , he told himself as he made the kid strip out of his suit and into the world’s most humiliating combination of PJ bottoms and tourist tee. It was a fluke of brain chemistry, a dirty little secret. Something that didn’t matter. 

What stays in your head doesn’t hurt anyone.

\---

Peter turning down his offer, now that’s a starting point. He remembers the shock of it, like being slapped, but also a little like a sudden swerve on a roller coaster. Unexpected, but thrilling. The kid wasn’t just a malleable block of very cute clay. He had a mind of his own, an internal compass Tony could respect.

But also, this: he believed in Tony so fucking hard he decided the whole thing was obviously a test. He looked at a man who hadn’t even considered that maybe fifteen was too young to pack up and move to the compound and saw a brilliant mentor putting him through his paces.

It made Tony want to be the person Peter saw him as, a little. It made him want to taste that worship a lot.

\---

It didn’t help that Pepper took one look at his attempt at a proposal and said, “Are you fucking kidding me, Tony?”

Which, you know, fair. He wouldn’t want to be a second thought, either.

He kind of proved her point when the first thing he did the next morning wasn’t try to rescue the relationship. No, he called the kid to offer him a real internship, because no one has ever accused him of making good choices.

\---

Oh yeah, the internship offer. He knew what he was doing with that. Maybe that was where it started.

\---

Or maybe Peter’s sixteenth birthday, which Tony didn’t realize was his birthday until Peter told him, because he is, in fact, a super crappy mentor, even leaving the really bad stuff aside. Not that Peter seems to mind all the myriad ways Tony fails him. Peter never minds anything he does, unless it involves stopping him from stopping crime.

(His moral compass remains incomparable, but he probably needs to work on the self-preservation skills.)

“What are you doing here with me?” Tony asked after that little revelation, gesturing around his lab. “Sweet sixteen, kid. You should be getting wasted with your friends.”

Peter’s mouth twitched into one of the doubtful smiles he gets when he’s not sure if Tony is kidding or not. “Uh, drinking age is twenty-one, Mr. Stark.”

“So? When I turned sixteen, I threw a rager. I was in my own house right off campus by that point, invited everyone I knew. Lots of people I didn’t know, for that matter. Party of the year. Well, I think. I’m pretty hazy on some of the details. Most of the details. Rhodey says I made out with half of the robotics club, though. _That’s_ how you should be celebrating.”

It wasn’t until after he said it that he realized what a good opening he’d left. Accidentally. That was not intentional. But if Tony were Peter, and he had a crush on himself, he’d have taken the opportunity to say, _Oh yeah? Want to help?_

But Peter was not Tony, Peter was Peter. He just looked a little sad and replied, “I want to remember my sixteenth birthday, Mr. Stark.”

He always looks a little sad when Tony talks about his partying days. Which is—something. It’s something, alright. The kind of something that allows Tony to tell himself, in his more delusional moments, that Peter is practically more mature than he is. 

“Fine, no rager,” Tony agreed, back then. “But still, shouldn’t you be celebrating with your friends? Do you want me to have Happy take you home? I won’t dock the internship hours.” It was a joke. They both knew Tony didn’t give a crap about the hours.

But Peter just grinned and shook his head. “I’m exactly where I want to be,” he said, and the look he gave Tony was worse than whatever seductive garbage Tony would’ve come up with in his position, because there was nothing fake about it. He was simply completely, genuinely happy to be spending his sixteenth birthday with Tony Stark.

\---

Yeah. Call that the start. It was definitely the moment whatever sense of self-restraint Tony had left was resoundingly defeated, never to raise its feeble head again.

\---

Tony did not, for the record, do anything that night, unless you count masturbating while thinking about the sixteen-year-old in the room next door. Unless you count saying his name as he came. Unless you count saying his name _loudly._

Unless you count doing all that while damn well knowing the sixteen-year-old next door has super hearing and a crush.

\---

Okay, so maybe he did something that night.

\---

Here’s what was definitely, incontrovertibly, undeniably—even for the world’s king of self-denial—the start: Peter, emerging from his room the next morning, shirtless, towel around his waist, hair mussed and wet from a shower.

Peter, wandering into the kitchen in that towel, when he had never even dared wear pajamas around the compound in the past, on the off-chance that Vision actually make an appearance.

Peter, stopping when there was still half a room between them and clearing his throat to get Tony’s attention, not that he didn’t already have it. Peter looking Tony straight in the eyes with an expression like a dare: chin up, jaw set.

Peter, saying, “Mr. Stark.”

That was it; two words. It was enough. The invitation was there in the way his voice broke, like something out of the actually-old movies he liked to make Tony watch—nothing explicit, nothing dirty, just rough, raw passion torn from deep in the gut.

Two words, just a name, but he was _begging_. With his whole face, his whole body, his whole being. His begging expanded to fill the room.

Begging—for what? To be touched, to be held—to be loved? What does a sixteen-year-old think they’re asking for when they say something like that to the superhero they’ve probably been jacking off to since before they were old enough to know what sex was?

“Kid,” Tony replied, and maybe part of him still meant to say, _I can’t_. Maybe, probably not, but maybe. Maybe part of him at least still _meant_ to mean to say it. Okay, no, that’s almost certainly a lie he’s telling himself, an attempt to re-write the moment. But really, honestly, truly, he was planning to ask: _What do you want? What can I give you? If we do this, how do I make it right?_ Can _I make it right?_

But then Peter said, “I—I heard you. And I spent all night thinking about it and you had to know I was going to hear. You _had_ to. And I can’t pretend I didn’t, please don’t ask me to pretend I didn’t because I _did_ and—and—”

He didn’t need to be nervous. He already had Tony; had him at “Mr. Stark,” had him at “I’m exactly where I want to be,” fuck, probably had him all the way back to the first time they met. But he was Peter, so of course he didn’t see that; of course he thought Tony was someone he still needed to win.

And he was Peter, so his idea of a move was dropping his towel, right there in the middle of the kitchen. 

It was absurd. Amateur hour, really. Who just drops their towel?

And yet, his body was perfect, all lean muscle and smooth skin. He looked bendable, somehow, like he was made to be folded in half and thrown over the nearest piece of furniture. His cock stood hard and red, curving up to hit his stomach, already glistening with precome, like maybe he’d stroked himself a bit before coming out of his room. Which—yeah, that was a hell of a thought.

But more than that body—and _god_ , what a body—the last straw, if Tony needed any more straws, was the way his eyes went wide, as if anything other than pure affirmation out of Tony’s mouth would break him. As if what Tony did next was the most important thing in the entire god damn universe.

Tony wants to be able to say he took it slow. Wants to be able to say that what he did next was something other than ego. Wants to be able to say he was driven by a desire to give Peter the world. He wants to be able to say, _H_ _ey, at least it was love_.

But that’s a lie. What happened next was because he likes being the most important thing in the whole god damn universe too much not to take the title when offered.

\---

Don’t get him wrong. He did want to give Peter the world. Still does. He picked the kid to be his successor because he’s everything superheroes should be. Steve, without the self-righteousness. Himself, without the everything.

Maybe there is even love in there. He thinks so, sometimes, when Peter laughs, teasing him for not getting some stupid internet meme. When he leans over in the lab, showing off an idea so smart, Tony wishes he came up with it first.

But that—giving him the world, being impressed by him, maybe even the other thing—has fuck all to do with grabbing his hips, kissing him with teeth, digging his fingers into his skin until Peter whines. It has nothing to do with making sure he never leaves the lab without bruises sucked onto the parts of his skin that will be covered by clothing; bite marks on the inside of his thighs, up his ass, across his shoulders.

Tony may be fucked up, but he’s not actually delusional. He knows: he takes what Peter offers—and Peter offers everything—because he’s too selfish not to.

\---

He barely remembers that first time. It was too fast, too intense. All he’s left with is impressions. Peter tasted fresh and smelled like cheap body wash. His wet hair stuck to the side of Tony’s face when Tony nibbled at his neck. He squirmed and protested that Tony’s beard was rough, but when Tony nuzzled closer his protests transformed into gasps.

He was a truly awful kisser, but Tony was so turned on it didn’t matter. Peter came within minutes, no warning, just a shuddering thrust against Tony’s hip. But then he said. “It’s okay, I have seriously zero refractory period, please, Mr. Stark, don’t stop.” Just like that, all one breath, as if he was afraid Tony would run away in disgust.

They got to Tony’s bedroom, somehow, but Tony didn’t manage to get naked. It was too hot, too much; he was rushing, trying to catch up with a year’s worth of want, or maybe outrun a lifetime of impending guilt. He barely got his belt off and his hand around his dick before he came, spattering across Peter’s chest.

Peter came a second time, just from watching.

\---

Once it started, it didn’t slow down. That would make it worse, Tony told himself. That would hurt Peter more. He seemed so _happy_ , all the time. Thrilled with every second Tony’s hands were on him, and even every second they weren’t, as long as they were together.

Because that’s the thing, the real key, the _why_ to the start, the reason it’s impossible to stop: Peter likes being around Tony _so much_. Straight up, unquestionably, he likes it more than anyone else Tony has ever known, except maybe Happy, and even Happy fusses over him. Not Peter. He never gets annoyed, never tells Tony he’s living his life wrong. He doesn’t mind when he’s moody, definitely doesn’t mind that he doesn’t believe in regular sleep schedules or little things like leaving the lab.

And Tony really, really likes being liked.

\---

He told Peter that, once. He was blissed out on the lab floor at the time, covered in Peter’s come, and his own, Peter panting on top of him, too worn out from god knows how many orgasms to move.

Tony, feeling particularly affectionate, brushed his fingers through Peter’s hair and said, “Fuck kid, you’re the only person I know who actually enjoys spending this much time with me.”

“That doesn’t sound right,” Peter protested into his chest. He ran his tongue across Tony’s nipple, making his already over-sensitive body jerk. “You’re Tony Stark.”

“Yeah, exactly.” Peter didn’t get it. But that was part of it. If Peter got what being Tony Stark really meant, if he could successfully remove the world’s rosiest rose-colored glasses, he would leave.

That would be for the best, and Tony would hate it.

“For the record, I enjoy spending time with you, too, Spider-kid,” he added.

Peter glowed, smile blinding. The rose-colored glasses weren’t going anywhere.

Tony glowed right back at him.

\---

Does it count as love if what you love is the rush of making someone happy just by existing?

\---

Tony might not remember the first time, but he remembers the other times. All the many other times. He has literal records of a lot of them.

It started as a joke, when Peter pronounced himself ready to keep going about five minutes after the first time was over.

“I don’t remember ever being quite _that_ eager, even at sixteen,” Tony said, waving Peter off. He didn’t feel like getting into the ins and outs of his body’s current limitations this early into what was supposed to be an ego trip. “Is this a spider-power thing?”

“Uh, maybe?” Peter tilted his head, considering. “I mean actually, yeah, maybe? I figured I was just getting hornier because of, you know, puberty and stuff, but…yeah. The timing makes sense.”

“Oh, well then.” Tony smirked a smirk he had smirked at many a one night stand in the past, and was pleased to see it earned a blush from Peter. Yeah, still got it. “I don’t know about you, but I feel like that’s something we should test.”

\---

Peter’s just as much a scientist as Tony. The joke turned into not a joke.

\---

One thing they learned: Peter can come fifteen times, though they only got that high once. Tony didn’t have the stamina for going that many times, not even just giving handjobs, so he built a machine to do the work for him: warm and wet sucking device fit perfectly on Peter’s dick, gauntlet fingers that curved just right inside him. He sat back and watched his boy bounce between the two pleasure devices he’d built. Peter whimpered, riding enthusiastically at first, eventually slowing down, flopping like a rag doll, barely able to keep himself up, but not tapping out for over an hour.

Tony had never felt more powerful.

\---

Another thing: Peter’s body is made to take pain, and he doesn’t mind when Tony tries to break him. It is, after all, never even close to his limit.

“Harder,” he insisted the first time Tony flung him across his knee and smacked him, like he’d imagined doing way back on that rooftop. Better than he’d imagined, actually. He’d had no idea how good it would feel to have Peter rut against him as he spanked him until his ass and thighs were burning red. How good it would feel to have him thrash and come, spilling in his lap only to whine, in the same breath, “Mr. Stark, don’t stop, _please_.”

How, best of all, it felt to have those eyes turn up at him after, full of trust and lust and a bit of mischief. To have Peter say, “You know, maybe next time we could try a paddle.”

\---

A third thing: Peter can hold his breath ungodly long. The record is a solid minute, nose buried in Tony’s pubic hair as Tony thrust down his throat, brutal and uncompromising, chasing his pleasure.

After that particular experiment, Peter was barely able to talk.

“It’s a good thing I heal fast,” he mused in a rough whisper that evening, feet propped in Tony’s lap. “This would be hard to explain to May.”

Tony’s throat went dry. He didn’t like to think about May—about anyone else. It wasn’t that he ever forgot what this was, exactly, but if he didn’t focus on it too hard, sometimes the guilt would recede into the background, at least while Peter was there, bright and still so very fucking happy. It was harder to keep the fantasy going when the real world poked its ugly head in.

“Yeah,” Tony said, so forced in his casualness anyone other than Peter would’ve noticed. “That is good.”

\---

A fourth thing, though this one didn’t come from any particular experiment: Peter really, really, _really_ wants Tony to fuck him.

It’s the one thing Tony refuses to do. Just straight up. No. That’s his line.

It _was_ his line, anyway.

“Why?” Peter complained, a few months in. “No offense, but that’s really stupid, Mr. Stark. You literally built me an orgasm machine! How is this different?”

“Maybe it’s not,” Tony agreed. “But sorry, kid, still no.”

\---

Peter was right, it didn’t make much sense. If Tony was forced to put it into words, it would be: _I want to leave him one thing. One thing I wasn’t the first person to take from him. One thing that can be all his_.

\---

If all that is where it started, this is where it ends: hurtling towards a nightmare that’s haunted him for years, being asked to cross a final line by the last person he wants to be here.

And, also, at the same time, the only person he wants to be with.

“ _Please_ ,” Peter repeats. “We’re in space. It doesn’t even count in space.”

“Pretty sure that’s not how that works.” But Tony’s already retracting his suit. He grabs Peter’s wrist, pulling him further down the corridor the kid managed to corner him in, not that he’s really worried about Strange finding them. Last time he checked, the wizard was meditating.

“Do I need to repeat the thing about not wanting to die a virgin?” Peter asks as he stumbles after him. “I’m serious, I don’t. How would that be fair?”

“That’s playing dirty,” Tony tells him. It’s the kind of thing you say when you’ve decided the other side has won. And the other side _has_ won. Not because Peter might die a virgin, but the opposite: Tony might die without getting to take his virginity.

So much for his last holdout. So much for leaving the kid with one final thing just for him. When push comes to shove, Tony can’t resist. See? Selfish. 

“I don’t even have lube,” he adds, a feeble last attempt at putting a stop to something that, in this moment, feels as inevitable as the danger they’re rushing to face.

“You don’t?” Peter sounds genuinely surprised. He lets the Iron Spider melt away. “I kind of assumed the suit would be equipped.”

“It’s a multi-million dollar weapon…and also, I haven’t worked out how to get it into the nanotech design,” Tony admits. “The old version had some upsides.”

Peter hits the center of his regular suit, letting it pool around his feet. All he has under it are tight boxer briefs, Iron Man red. “I don’t care about the lube, Mr. Stark. I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll care.” In one swift motion Tony grabs Peter, spins him, and pins him against the nearest wall, crowding up behind him. He rubs his hips against his ass, cock thickening. “Trust me, you’ll care.”

Then he drops to his knees, pulling Peter’s underwear down with him. He notes the fabric is wet with precome. He leans forward and bites an approving mark onto Peter’s butt cheek, enjoying, as always, how firm he his.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Peter gasps, leaning against the wall. Then, “ _Fuck_ ,” again, when Tony grabs his ass and pulls his cheeks apart. “Holy— _wow_ ,” when Tony shoves his tongue into his hole, demanding, impatient.

As he laps at Peter, adding a finger next to his tongue, then another, delighting in his moans and the way his legs tremble, Tony feels some of the same heady dizziness as their first time—the same tug to go faster, harder, to get what he’s wanted for so long right now; to get it over with before he stops himself.

But he refuses to forget this time, so he makes himself focus as he stands, pulling his dick out of the confines of his pants. He notices Peter is clinging to the wall with the tips of his fingers, clearly using his powers. Huh. Smart. That’s something they haven’t played with yet. They should add it to the list once this is over.

As he lines himself up against Peter, he tamps down the obvious rejoinder in his head: _There may not be a “once this is over_. _”_

“Ready?” he asks. He doesn’t wait for Peter to finish nodding before he pushes in.

\---

He shoves Peter against the wall, pounding into him. He’s brutal, taking, and yet Peter is right there with him, reaching back to grab his neck and drag him closer.

Tony squeezes Peter’s hips so tight he hurts _for_ him. He digs his nails into his skin because he wants him to feel it later; wants, somehow, to leave a mark, in case he’s not there when this is all over. As if Peter’s body won’t fade the bruises before they even get to Thanos’s home world. He bites his neck, high up behind his ear, because for once they don’t have to worry about anyone seeing; the mask will cover it.

“Fuck, you’re so tight, baby,” he growls. “Fuck, you’re even better than I imagined.” 

After all, what’s the point in pretending he hasn’t thought about this?

He tries, so hard, to memorize every moment. He’s so focused on each detail he doesn’t notice his own orgasm creeping up on him. Peter suddenly goes stiff and tight, staining the walls with his come. That’s all it takes: Tony comes too, without another thrust.

The shock of it is so overwhelming, he forgets to remember how it feels.

\---

They sit together after, slumped against the wall. Peter pulls his suit half on; high enough that his chest is covered, but not so high that Tony can’t see the evidence of his work in the purple bruises along his neck. He reaches over, grazing a particularly dark mark with his finger, and is pleased when Peter shivers at the touch.

“I love that, you know,” Peter says. “When you mark me. It makes me feel…owned, I guess. In a good way.”

Tony sighs. That is the point, but it somehow doesn’t feel great to hear it out loud. “Noted.”

Peter gives him a sideways glance, as if he can tell he isn’t happy. “I loved that, too. The sex. All of it.” He licks his lips and scoots a little closer. “I love _you_. You know that, right?”

Fuck. Should’ve seen that coming. You have sex with a sixteen-year-old, that’s the kind of thing they say after. Tony closes his eyes. For a moment, he considers saying it back. It would make the kid happy. It might even be true.

No, he decides. He’ll leave that as the one thing he lets Peter keep, since he couldn’t let him keep his virginity. One day, when the kid isn’t such a kid anymore, he’ll say _I love you_ to someone else, and that someone will return the sentiment, and he won’t have the memory of Tony Stark maybe lying to him about it on a spaceship to cloud the moment.

It’s no absolution, but it’s something.

He puts on his bravest smile, and turns to face Peter head on. “Kid, can you do me a favor?”

“Anything.” Peter breathes, earnest, apparently not put off that Tony didn’t say those words back. As if he wasn’t expecting it.

“Just…don’t die today. I don’t think I could ever forgive myself if you died.”

Peter’s eyes fill with awe, as if Tony not wanting him to die is a high compliment. He crawls across the space between them to shove himself into Tony’s arms, leaning against his chest.

“I’ll do my best,” he promises. “But I’m honestly not worried, Mr. Stark. I’m with you.”

 _Yeah, that’s the whole problem, Pete_ , Tony doesn’t reply out loud. _You’re with me_.

He sighs, pulling him closer.

That’s the whole fucking problem.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, feedback is loved <3
> 
> Originally posted anon because of an exchange. Re-dated with my name on it, sorry if you've seen it before!


End file.
